


come into the garden, mauve

by verity



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Consensual Kink, Dom/sub Undertones, F/M, Immobility, Nail Polish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-21
Updated: 2013-01-21
Packaged: 2017-11-26 08:12:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/648446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/verity/pseuds/verity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles is not prepared for nail polish related boners. At all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	come into the garden, mauve

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Blue My Mind](https://archiveofourown.org/works/642526) by [fleete](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fleete/pseuds/fleete). 



The alpha pack's in town and they've brought some friends, which means that Stiles has been up late working with Lydia on the translation of the Argent bestiary almost every night for the last week; anything is better than owing a favor to Peter Hale. 

It's still summer, so during the day Stiles is working for Deaton with Scott and Lydia is presumably drinking virgin margaritas while floating around her pool on a raft and reading Machiavelli. Or shopping. Lydia doesn't exactly welcome questions about her personal life and Stiles doesn't ask. Mostly, he flips through her giant, heavily annotated copy of the Oxford Latin Dictionary whenever she needs a vocab check and refills her glass of iced tea every ten minutes.

Stiles isn't expecting anything different tonight, but when Lydia answers the door, she's wearing what look suspiciously like pajamas and her mouth is set in hard line. "We're going to watch _A Walk to Remember_ and cry," she says. "You can paint my nails."

"Okay," Stiles says, because—Lydia.

He follows Lydia up to her bedroom, where she foists the pink equivalent of a tackle box into his arms, and down the hall into a room with a 60" TV and a huge couch. Lydia flops down on the couch, the straps on her top sliding perilously on her slim shoulders. "Put the DVD in."

Stiles puts the DVD in.

The tackle box turns out to be entirely full of nail polish, normal colors like pink and red scattered among a rainbow of shades that Stiles didn't realize people actually put on their nails. The colors all have weird names, too, like _Harlot Starlet_ (metallic red) and _Oops Oh My_ (neon yellow) and _It's Okay to Be Tackay_ (rainbow glitter). After lengthy contemplation, Lydia pulls out a glossy purple-pink and says, "Toes first," swinging her feet up into his lap.

While Stiles has spent a lot of time committing various features of Lydia Martin to memory and possibly writing odes to them, her toes never previously occupied much of his attention. They're perfect, like every other part of her. He massages her feet, applies base coat, exactly two coats of _Come Into the Garden, Mauve_ , and then a glistening slick of top coat. "How did I do?" he asks, screwing the top back on the last bottle.

"Let me look." Lydia pauses the movie on Mandy Moore's tragic smile, shifting to rest her feet on the edge of the coffee table. "That's fine. You can do my hands now."

Lydia's hands are soft, delicate, resting in his; Stiles feels like the Beast trying to do Beauty's nails in some really unfortunate musical montage. He takes a deep breath and forges on. It's easier the second time around—he doesn't have to go back with a cotton swab and nail polish remover to fix any mistakes—and Lydia looks satisfied when she holds her hands up to inspect them.

"Good job," she says.

They finish the movie. Lydia passes Stiles the box of tissues when he starts crying.

—

Maybe Stiles's foray into the world of manicures would have occupied more of his attention in some alternate universe without werewolves, but as it is, he doesn't have enough time to worry about his masculinity before Scott gets kidnapped the next day. In the ensuing clusterfuck, Stiles has to come clean to his dad, talk his dad out of grounding him forever, and convince Derek to team up with Mr. Argent to get Scott back before Peter sacrifices him to the moon or whatever. On top of that, the alpha pack's still around, circling, drawing closer. It's not that Stiles doesn't take time out of his busy best-friend-saving, magic-learning, panic-attack-having schedule to jerk off, but he's sticking with his old standards: Lydia eating ice cream, Derek stripping, that one lesbian bondage threesome AVI he's watched about sixty times. He definitely doesn't think about _nail polish_.

Unfortunately, this means that Stiles is not prepared for nail polish related boners. At all.

Tonight, Lydia meets him at the door fully dressed, purses her lips, and says, "We're watching _Dear John_ and I'm doing your nails."

"Do I get to pick the color?" Stiles says.

Lydia doesn't give him a foot massage before she starts in on his toes with _Filthy Gorgeous_ , a virulent green that sparkles faintly in the dim light of the screen. The base coat is cold and Stiles squirms for a moment before Lydia digs her nails into his ankle. "Stop _moving_."

Stiles takes a deep breath and stills.

 _Dear John_ is a terrible movie, and Stiles probably wouldn't be engrossed in it even if Lydia weren't touching him and glaring at him every time he so much as twitches a muscle. What's worse is that the glaring is actually _turning him on_ , even as Lydia coats his nails with colors that only the ladies at Jungle would wear. She works fast, too, not taking a break between his feet and his hands except to switch _Filthy Gorgeous_ out for _Fuchsia Me Gently_. Stiles is trying not to move, trying not to breathe too hard, and his dick is pressing right against his zipper and he kind of wants to cry. He whimpers a little when Lydia starts putting on the top coat.

"You're doing so good, Stiles," she says, stroking the side of his hand with her thumb. "Just a little longer, okay?"

"Yeah," Stiles says. "I'll—I can—okay."

When she finishes, she puts Stiles's hands on either side of him, a few inches out from his thighs, and leaves him there while she packs away everything into the big pink tackle box. The movie is still on; Stiles isn't paying it much attention. It's hard to breathe.

Lydia looks up at him when she's done and smiles. "You're so patient," she says. "Look at your nails. They're perfect."

"They're… you did a really great job." The colors are kind of intense, but the polish is smooth, no smudges or bleed around the edges. Stiles will probably chip them within 24 hours because of something werewolf-related. "They look good."

"You have to keep them there until they dry." Lydia's still kneeling on the floor next to the tackle box, knees sinking into the plush carpet. She scoots over until she's right between Stiles's splayed legs and puts one mauve-trimmed hand on his inner thigh. "You think you can do that?"

"I—yes," Stiles says.

"Good," Lydia says, sitting back, watching him.

—

By the end of the movie, Stiles's nails are dry and his dick is no longer chafing against the restraint of his pants. He's beginning to think that he might emerge from this experience with his honor, if not his dignity, intact. And if he sheds a few tears, it could totally be over Amanda Seyfried's dying husband. Right.

Lydia leans over as the credits start to roll. "Are you going to take the polish off before you go home?"

"Uh, no?" Stiles says. "I knew what I was getting into."

"You did," Lydia says, thoughtful. "I used to think you were just hung up on me because—lots of people like me, I like it when people like me. But you like it when I tell you what to do, don't you? You like to be told what to do."

Stiles stares ahead at the credits. "No. Or—maybe. When it's you."

"Hmm," Lydia says.

—

When Stiles gets home, Dad's in the kitchen, microwaving popcorn. "Stiles," he says, narrowing his eyes. "That's an interesting look on you."

"I know, right?" Stiles says. Under the bright light in the kitchen, the metallic fuchsia gleams. "Lydia did them."

Dad shoots him a wry look. "She still has you wrapped around her finger, huh?"

Stiles shrugs. "Kind of?" he says. "It works for me."

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[podfic] come into the garden, mauve](https://archiveofourown.org/works/766065) by [majoline](https://archiveofourown.org/users/majoline/pseuds/majoline)




End file.
